


my ear to my heart

by returnsandreturns



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Beat Generation, Flirting, Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Poetry, Work In Progress, idk y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-10-09 07:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returnsandreturns/pseuds/returnsandreturns
Summary: Foggy kisses a smirking boy at a social between the Columbia and Barnard English Departments, three months into his first year, meets eyes with him across a smoky room full of students and professors stiltedly mingling and knows immediately that, just in that moment, he’d follow him anywhere.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this is going but it's FUN so I'm posting it

Foggy kisses a smirking boy at a social between the Columbia and Barnard English Departments, three months into his first year, meets eyes with him across a smoky room full of students and professors stiltedly mingling and knows immediately that, just in that moment, he’d follow him anywhere.

Anywhere in this case is an empty classroom down the hall, silent except for the low murmur from the party, and the boy—Lawrence, he says his name is Lawrence, murmuring against Foggy’s chin before his teeth are on Foggy’s bottom lip. And that’s it, no words before Foggy’s back is pressed up against a chalkboard and he’s tasting bourbon on somebody else’s tongue and being _touched_ like—like he’s never been touched before. Big hands tugging at his hair, squeezing his hips to pull him forward, running over his ass.

“How—how did you know?” Foggy asks, gasping for air, fisting the back of Lawrence’s jacket.

 _He_ didn’t even know, not for sure. There are so many things that make him feel like a puzzle piece that won’t quite fit that he’s never bothered to narrow it down, just a shaky list of things he wants that he shouldn’t, things he _does_ that he shouldn’t, the hot, daring urge to unzip Lawrence’s fly and make good on the promise of those kisses even though he hardly knows what he’s doing. This is entirely new ground and Foggy isn’t sure-footed, but he thinks about his high school sweetheart smiling a pink lipstick smile and dropping to her knees while his parents were out of the house and how he couldn’t help but think, when he kissed her and tasted his own come, what it would be like to _be_ her.

“We don’t have to talk,” Lawrence says, like he means _stop talking._ Foggy’s familiar with that.

“Right,” he says, faintly. “Right.”

He’s reaching for Lawrence’s belt when they hear clicking heels coming down the hallway in their direction and Lawrence says, “Shit, _shit_ ,” and pushes past him and says, “Don’t say anything about this or I’ll ruin you first,” and leaves Foggy in the room alone to contemplate climbing out a window, not sure if it’s for a quick escape or maybe an eternal one because his erection pressed up against another man’s erection changed everything, changed _something_ for once in his life and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

He’s combing his hair with his fingers, straightening up his clothes, when Marci steps in.

“There you are,” she says, scoffing. “I can’t believe you left me with those _stiffs_. And what were you doing with Larry?”

“He said his name was Lawrence,” Foggy says, dumbly, trying to reorient himself while he feels like he was launched into space just to crash down to earth again at Marci’s perfectly shined high heels.

“I had the displeasure of meeting him earlier,” she says, dryly, “and he seemed like a Larry.”

Foggy laughs with a note of hysteria. The room isn’t spinning but it seems like it should be.

“What were you doing, Foggy?” Marci asks, softer now. Suspicious, probably, which is fine—she has grounds to be. Foggy can see his reflection in the window and he looks like someone worthy of suspicion.

“Just talking,” he says.

Marci looks him up and down before nodding.

“You should be more careful about where you talk, okay?” she says, and Foggy’s heart catches up with the situation, beating so hard that he thinks she must be able to hear it because she steps forward to touch his cheek briefly and wrap her arms around him.

“Marce,” he breathes out.

“I know,” she says, shortly, rubbing his back before taking a step back. “Now, come on—let’s go somewhere wild.”

“Wild?”

“Well, wilder than this joint,” she says, taking his arm and reminding him how to walk. “Which, honestly, _could_ be the nearest library.”

“St. Paul’s Chapel,” Foggy says, smiling.

“The _morgue_ ,” Marci says, laughing. “Our bar is low, Nelson, but will probably at least be a bar—are you up to accompany me?”

“Of course,” Foggy says, genuinely. “Anywhere.”

*

Marci is so out of place with her perfect hair and pearls but she navigates this room like it owes her something and Foggy trails behind her and tries not to compare himself to this crowd of people who look like folks that Foggy’s mother wouldn’t want him to spend time with. It’s a bad night for him to be here. It’s a bad night for him to be around other people entirely because these boys sitting on tables and draped over the bar, kissing girls in corners, crowding the stage—they make Foggy think of sex like he never has before. He’s buttoned up and straight and they have messy clothes, crooked smiles, cigarettes and joints burning at every fingertip and they could see through him with a glance if they thought to glance.

When they settle in armchairs shoved into a corner with drinks and Marci takes his free hand like he still needs to be guided, he’s only got eyes for one of them.

“He’s dreamy,” Marci says, non-committal.

“He’s—” _Beautiful_ , Foggy thinks. “Uhm, Yeah.”

The guy on the stage—Matt, someone yells it out from the crowd, loud over the bustling noise of too many people crammed into a space who all seem like they have something to say—smiles bashfully and runs his fingers through his hair and fidgets with his dark glasses. Blind, probably, but Foggy doesn’t exactly keep up with trends so it could just be the fashion.

“Everybody shut it!” someone yells, from behind the bar. “Matt’s a sensitive, soft-spoken artiste!”

“Fuck,” Matt says, laughing. “Thanks, Luke.”

“You got it.”

“Oh, I think they’re doing _poetry_ ,” Marci says, shifting in her seat. “Normally there’s jazz. I bet you’ll like this even more.”

“Uh huh,” Foggy says, aware that she’s speaking but on an entirely new plane when Matt opens his mouth.

Matt _is_ soft-spoken, but every word he says, even those thoughts that twist and turn for what could be hours, hits Foggy like a ton of bricks. He’s on the edge of his seat when Matt finishes this fragile, bitter poem about growing up and out of a Catholic orphanage that’s both achingly personal and ridiculously expansive, almost falling forward in his haste to applaud and cringing when he’s the only one.

“They snap, you simpleton,” Marci hisses, trying not to laugh.

Foggy buries his face in his hands but the laughter from the crowd isn’t mean and passes quick.

“Thanks, pal,” Matt says, looking amused when Foggy raises his head again before he climbs off stage and makes his way to the bar.

“Put something in my drink,” Foggy moans, leaning close to Marci. “Cyanide, anything—just let death take me.”

“Oh, hush,” Marci says, clearly deeply amused by his pain. “You’ll return to your wholesome life soon and never see them again.”

In the middle of another poet whose poems are a bit more dirty—which is saying something, because Matt’s weren’t exactly _pure_ and the sound of his voice wrapped around words that went straight to Foggy’s cock will stay with him for a while—he’s startled when a hand squeezes his shoulder and he’s suddenly face to face with that shy smile he saw onstage. Less shy now, though. Maybe cocky.  

“Hey, are you my fan?” he asks, leaning down so his lips brush Foggy’s ear. It’s somehow the most charged, electric thing that Foggy has ever experienced, so strong that he almost feels sick over it.

 “Yes, I’m  _so_  sorry,” he says, turning toward him. “I’m somewhat new to this.”

“Somewhat?” Matt presses.

“Completely,” Foggy admits.

Something flickers over Matt’s face and he rubs Foggy’s shoulder before holding out a beer for him, saying, “I thought I’d show my gratitude, but if it’s your first time here—let me show you around?”

Matt’s fingers move to Foggy’s neck instead, pressing just below his collar.

Foggy wants to feel his bare skin. He’s not even sure what’s happening to him anymore. He glances over to see that Marci’s still watching the poet with interest, a dark-haired woman in a suit with a glare to kill and even sharper words, before saying, firmly, “Yes, please.”

Matt’s smile gets _filthy._

“Great,” he says. “Let’s go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this more quickly than anticipatedddddd

“Are you always so polite?” Matt asks, leading Foggy away from the crowd with his fingers around Foggy’s wrist and into a backroom where it’s quiet, just crates full of booze and some old furniture and Matt, who lets him go and turns to face him with a curious look.

“. . .yes,” Foggy says, after a moment. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Matt says, smiling. “No, it’s enviable. Not everyone can be nice.”

Foggy wants to ask him if _he’s_ nice but he suspects the answer is complicated and he doesn’t yet want to lose track of a conversation he’s fully expecting to lose track of, so he says, “I’m Foggy, by the way—Foggy Nelson.”

“Foggy Nelson,” Matt repeats, reaching up to take the top button of Foggy’s shirt between his fingers, toying with it. Foggy’s breath catches. “Who are you, Foggy?”

“I—have no idea,” Foggy says, grateful when Matt’s smile gets warmer, running his fingers down Foggy’s chest and leaning in close so Foggy can feel Matt’s breath on his face and let his heart beat faster at the idea of Matt’s open mouth for him to kiss. He was never an especially good Protestant but he’s pretty sure he can put it aside for good now because there was never a religious moment that’s rivaled this one.

Matt turns his head so his lips barely brush Foggy’s cheek before he’s stepping back again, leaving Foggy to slump against the wall.

“You’re in the right place then,” he says. “None of us are anything. You’re a student, right?”

“How did you know?” Foggy asks.

“I can just _feel_ Columbia on you,” Matt says. “History?”

“English Literature.”

“You write?” Matt asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Poorly,” Foggy says. He wants to tell Matt that everything about him makes Foggy want to sit down and write whatever poem comes out of him but that’s not what he is. He doesn’t have those words inside of him. “I want to be a lawyer, actually, in a few years.”  

“A lawyer?” Matt asks. “I might need you soon.”

“Planning on committing a crime?” Foggy asks.

“Actively doing so,” Matt says. “This whole crowd, actually—we’re legally _obscene._ ”

“What’s so obscene about you?” Foggy asks, even though he’s got a good idea, from the coarse language that fell so artfully out of Matt’s mouth. From Matt’s mouth in general.

“Me, specifically?” Matt asks, smirking, leaning in close for another moment before he steps away again, swaying a little like he might’ve had a few drinks before he went onstage earlier.

“Your people, I suppose,” Foggy says, laughing, reaching out to tug gently at his sleeve.

“Free thinking,” Matt says, following Foggy’s hand to step in close again, sighing. “Drugs. Sodomy.”

“I see,” Foggy says, heart hammering.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, poking him once in the chest. “Is there anything obscene about you?”

“Not until recently,” Foggy says, laughing when Matt laughs first, reaching up to run his fingers through Foggy’s hair before dropping them down to trace his throat.

“A bowtie?” Matt asks, biting his lip around a smile, tugging it gently.

“Don’t judge me,” Foggy says, blushing. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“None of us do,” Matt says, palm resting flat on Foggy’s chest, his other hand moving slowly to cup Foggy’s warm cheek. “We just—show up. Say all the things people think we shouldn’t be saying. . .I bet you’ve got some things to say, sweetheart.”

Foggy’s not sure that he does, but Matt’s breath is on his lips and their bodies are so close and maybe this counts as a statement—pushing in to kiss Matt on that mouth he can’t take his eyes from. Matt moans softly and kisses him back, tongue brushing against Foggy’s lower lip before slipping into his mouth.

Matt smells like strong coffee and cigarette smoke, and he kisses like they have all of the time in the world, like they’re not a room away from a bar full of people doing something that could get them thrown in jail.

“Have you—have you been arrested for this before?” Foggy murmurs, barely breaking the kiss.

Matt laughs faintly, nudging their noses together.

“Not yet,” he says. “You?”

“I’ve—never done anything,” Foggy says, laughing. “Nothing in my whole life.”

“What a waste of a good body,” Matt says, so sweet, getting Foggy up against the wall and kissing him roughly. He kisses like an indulgence, like this is the only thing he wants, like he wants _Foggy_ and Foggy feels like his whole world is shattering but shattering _open_ because this is _who he is_.

“Matt,” he says, embarrassingly breathless. “I want—I—”

“Come home with me, beautiful,” Matt says, biting Foggy’s lip. “I’ll give you everything.”

“How can you call me beautiful?” Foggy asks. “You’re blind, right?”

“I’m a poet,” Matt says, dropping his hands to Foggy’s waist. “I know beauty even when I don’t see it.”

“Does that line get all the gals?” Foggy asks.

“Oh, absolutely,” Matt says, grinning. “A few guys, too.”

Foggy kisses him one more time before he says, “Oh, _damn_ , I came with a friend. I need to make sure she gets home alright.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Matt says. “Just do me a favor first.”

“Anything,” Foggy says.

“Say _oh fuck_ , instead.”

“. . .oh, fuck,” Foggy says, lips twitching.

“There we go,” Matt says, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. “Feels better, doesn’t it?”

It really does.

*

When Foggy makes it back out to Marci, she’s at a table with a couple of women, talking intensely.

“Jesus, there you are,” she says, when he taps her shoulder. “Where’d you run off to?”

“I was, uhm— _talking_ ,” Foggy says, making a face at her.

“Well, aren’t you prolific?” Marci says, laughing before covering her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, I tripped and fell into several drinks—oh, this is Misty and Jessica, I think they’re leading me to enlightenment.”

“Or straight to hell,” Misty says, smiling pleasantly and waving lazily at him. Jessica snorts and sinks further into her seat, shoes kicked up on the edge of Marci’s chair.

“It’s a fine line,” she says, giving Foggy an unimpressed look before taking a drag from her cigarette and tipping her head back to blow the smoke to the ceiling. She passes it off to Marci.

“You smoke now?” Foggy asks.

“I think I’ve found my people,” Marci says, grinning up at him. Her yellow floral dress stands out in contrast to Jessica’s wrinkled suit and Misty’s fitted black pants but it somehow still looks like she belongs here. Marci’s good at that. “You can run off and be a heathen if you’d like—you don’t have to squire me back to campus.”

“We’ll take good care of her,” Misty says, genuinely.

Marci passes the cigarette back to Jessica and reaches up toward Foggy, says, “Hey, come here,” and pulls him down so she can sit up and press a kiss to his forehead. “Be safe.”

“You, too,” Foggy says, smoothing her now messy hair down and turning to leave, taking a deep steadying breath.

Matt’s waiting for him outside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you ever had anyone inside you?” Matt murmurs, lips on Foggy’s ear, making Foggy start a little in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a brief sex scene

“Have you ever had anyone inside you?” Matt murmurs, lips on Foggy’s ear, making Foggy start a little in his arms. They’re dancing to a soft sweet jazz record in Matt’s tiny sparse room, both of them this side of graceless but Foggy knows this is just a step—the way you take a girl out just to take her home. Foggy’s never been this forward with a girl, though. He feels like Matt’s been swaying them closer to the bed but it might be his imagination. It might be him _hoping_.

“No,” Foggy says. “Never.”

“You fucked a girl?”

Matt’s hand slides down low on Foggy’s back and it makes Foggy press in closer, gasping.

“A few times,” he says.

“Now, be honest,” Matt says, pressing a smile to his cheek.

“Once,” Foggy admits. “It was—prom night.”

Matt laughs and it’s _poetry_ , the way he pulls Foggy close to his chest like he wants to feel more of him and says, “You’re an all American boy, aren’t you, Foggy Nelson? Are you sure you want to be hanging around a guy like me?”

“I’ve never met a guy like you,” Foggy says, “and—I’ve never felt like this.”

There’s something about Matt that makes him want to be honest in ways he’s never been honest before, not even with himself. And the one thing that feels the most honest is taking a few steps back and starting to unbutton his shirt. Matt looks surprised, head angled in Foggy’s direction like he’s listening to him, mouth open.

“Here,” he says, after a moment, after Foggy’s shirt is on the floor, stepping forward so Foggy swears he feels electricity from his fingertips when they brush over his arm, feels it spreading under his skin when Matt grabs his belt and pulls him in for another kiss.

“I want you,” Foggy says, because it feels brave, _all_ of this feels brave and terrifying and stupid, standing naked in a room he’s never stood in before. Matt’s room is cold, the floor freezing underneath his bare feet, and it doesn’t matter that Matt can’t see him—Foggy feels bare and exposed and wanted.

He’s so desperate for Matt that he doesn’t know what to do with his body.

“Get on your hands and knees for me, sweetheart,” Matt says, running his hand down Foggy’s bare side, and Foggy’s brain flits between total incoherence and thinking about all of the things that Matt does with those hands. “Spread your legs wide.”

*

Matt’s sheets are silk—surprisingly decadent considering his bare walls, muted colors—and Foggy’s sweat slick hands slip on them every time Matt thrusts into him. He feels like he’s dreaming, grounded only by the dull pain and the heat pooling in his stomach and his cock bobbing underneath him. Matt’s panting fills up the air around him, the edge to his voice when he tugs Foggy’s hair gently to lean down and press a kiss to his cheek, ask, “Do you like it? Do you like getting fucked?”

It’s like Foggy has never felt anything in his life until now, like his skin just woke up and realized why it’s stuck around this long, but he just gasps, “Yes, yes,” and groans when Matt turns his face enough to kiss him on the mouth.

Matt encourages him to turn over on his back and it’s different, face to face, Matt’s hair slicked back with sweat and his hands on Foggy’s waist and Foggy feels like his heart’s going to stop and the back and forth of their bodies, their skin sliding together, makes the room spin when he shuts his eyes. He feels sick but it’s anticipation, the growing ache of his erection and every part of his body that Matt isn’t touching—must be hot to the touch but neglected, and he thinks about asking for it, about touching himself, so unsure of what to do with his hands as they grip the sheets.

“You’re taking it so well,” Matt says. “I knew you would.”

“H—how?” Foggy asks.

Two men in one night saw something that Foggy barely felt himself and there’s a touch of nerves there because normally he knows how to hide better.

“The way you melt when I touch you,” Matt says, rocking his hips as he leans down to press a lush kiss to Foggy’s mouth. “Even when it’s just your hand—like you’re not being touched enough.”

“It’s possible,” Foggy admits. “Actually, could you—would you touch me?”

Matt makes a soft noise and traces his fingers down Foggy’s chest, stopping before they brush against his erection, sly smile on his face when he looks up and asks, “Where do you want me to touch you?”

“You’re awful close,” Foggy says, smiling when Matt laughs. “Come on.”

“Indulge me,” Matt says.

Foggy can feel the warmth from Matt’s fingers on him and it’s maddening, so he says, “My cock—will you please touch my cock?”

“What a good boy,” Matt says, and it only feels a little like Foggy is being taunted—he knows that Matt’s not _good_ in the same way that he allegedly is, just from the smell of marijuana in this room and the language he used onstage and the fact that he’s currently leading Foggy down an unanticipated albeit welcome path of sin. He’s sweet, though, and he’s careful when he needs to be and he’s—well, he’s got a way with words.

Matt reaches for the vaseline that he used to stretch Foggy open and fill him up earlier and slicks the hand that he wraps around Foggy’s erection, smiling when Foggy whimpers and shoves his hips up.

“You deserve to be touched, often and fiercely,” Matt says, firmly. “You deserve to have your body treated like bodies are meant to be treated.”

Foggy is writhing on Matt’s dick, Matt’s hand working him hard, their skin slapping audibly every time they meet. This year has been late nights and shitty food and alcohol and looking at people and rarely touching. He doesn’t think of his body often. He’s _never_ thought of his body as something worthy of much more than it already gets by virtue of existence.

“How’s that?” he asks, on the end of a moan.

“Equal parts reverence,” Matt says, smirking, “and _irreverence_.”

He lifts Foggy’s legs to pull them up and around him, fucking him harder.

Foggy didn’t realize how much he enjoys irreverence until this very moment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic doesn't have a plot but it just keeps happening regardless

They stay up until the sunrise hits Matt’s blurry unclean window, sharing words in the small space between them because Foggy’s being held close in Matt’s arms and kissed every so often, like Matt can’t help himself. He feels like a child, absolutely thoughtless, telling Matt things that he’s never even said aloud before—things he’s never even told himself now effortless and floating with his lips pressed to Matt’s scratchy cheek.

“I should go,” he says, when he can’t deny any longer that time hasn’t stopped to allow him this night stretching on. He can hear the city waking up around them. 

Matt sighs loudly and slides down so he’s sprawled in Foggy’s lap instead, head tipped up and Foggy thinks about kissing him but all of a sudden can’t figure out how, so instead he lets himself trace the bridge of Matt’s nose and is filled with the urge to touch every inch of him, wonders if Matt would stay still and let him or if it would be a repeat of last time—Matt pulling him in and in and in until they seemed to blur together.

“Sure you can’t stay a while longer, sugar? Get some shuteye?” Matt asks, sleepily, catching Foggy’s finger gently between his teeth when it drops down to his soft lips and running his tongue over it.

Foggy take a deep, deep breath, tracing the pout of Matt’s lower lip when he frees his finger before he admits, “I’ve got no good reason not to. I’m just more scared of you in the daylight.”

“Scared of me,” Matt asks, curiously, “or what you are?”

Foggy opens his mouth but nothing comes out, because some of the euphoria has settled under his skin, because he still has to go back to his real life sometime and he won’t be able to say a word about this and nothing has changed even though _so much_ has changed, so much that Foggy can’t take back now that he’s let himself feel it and _be_ felt and—

“Hey,” Matt says, interrupting his thoughts, sitting up to pull Foggy into a sweet, simple kiss, their lips pressed together for just a moment. “Sorry, I’m sorry—you need some good sleep and some better coffee, before you even think about staying or going or—thinking, actually. Lemme help you with that, okay?”

Foggy looks at his thoughtful smile and kisses it.

“Okay,” he says, sliding easily into Matt’s arms again.

*

They fall asleep together and stay tangled up well past lunchtime, but Matt still makes him coffee and scrambled eggs, pulling his chair close to Foggy’s at the cramped table in the corner. He’s got one hand playing with the hair on Foggy’s neck, a little longer than it normally is because he’s been putting off a cut, when he says, “It’s probably easier for me, having no family—nobody’s good influence to keep me from sinning.”

“I thought you were Catholic,” Foggy says.

“Oh, I always confess afterward,” Matt says. “Especially after somebody gives me a night like you did.”  

“How—how often do you—entertain guests?” Foggy asks.

“Do you mean fuck men?” Matt asks, grinning, making Foggy blush for what must be the hundredth time since the first time Matt touched him. “Occasionally. I normally don’t make them breakfast, though.”

Foggy turns to look at Matt’s face and it’s soft even though there’s a smirk that seems to be there perpetually, like it was carved there by God himself when he so obviously took his loving time creating Matt. Real beauty with the sunlight streaming through the window and hitting the slope of his cheek.

“Why me?” Foggy asks.

Matt hides his face in his coffee for a moment before he says, somewhat sheepish, “If I’m being honest, after your enthusiastic response to my lunatic rambling, I just thought you’d be easy.”

“Oh, Christ,” Foggy says, immediately. “I’m a tramp.”

Matt bursts out laughing, throwing his head back.

“You’re a peach,” he says, cheeks pink, pushing shaggy hair away from his eyes. “I want to know everything about you, Foggy Nelson.”

“That probably won’t take very long,” Foggy says, smiling and leaning in to when Matt turns to kiss him on the mouth, just a quick soft sweet thing, like they’ve been doing it for more than a night, like it’s _normal_. Okay.

“Then we’ll have time to have some more fun,” Matt says, voice low.

“Alright,” Foggy breathes.

*

“I just got back,” Marci says, hoarsely, when Foggy gets dress enough to go downstairs to call her at the payphone on the corner to make sure she made it back aright. “I maybe have a reputation now. Oh—fuck _off_ , Janet.”

“Oh, I hate Janet,” Foggy says.

“Everyone does—she just stopped to look at me like she knew I’ve been involved in _lewd activities_ ,” Marci says.

“ _Do_ you look like you’ve been involved in lewd activities?”

“I may _smell_ like whiskey,” she says, after a moment, “and I believe my makeup’s gone straight to hell and I absolutely fell asleep on someone’s floor, so my dress—accurately represents that fact. But I wouldn’t use the word lewd.”

“I—probably could,” Foggy says, hesitantly, tensing up immediately after he says it, up until the point that Marci laughs loudly into the receiver.

“Where _are_ you right now, Nelson?” she asks.

“Down the street from his place,” he says. “I wanted to check on you before I, uhm—went back up.”

“Wow, kid, you goin’ steady already?” she asks.

“I don’t know that he’s the goin’ steady type,” he says.

“Did you have fun, at least?”

“A lot of fun,” Foggy says, sighing. “It can’t last, though, can it?”

“Pretend it can,” Marci says, after a beat. “You can live a scandal out for the weekend—as long as you come back Sunday night, because apparently there are these things called classes?”

“And we have to go to them or we ruin our futures and disappoint our parents,” Foggy says, obediently. They alternate giving each other this talk, though Marci’s quick to point out that she’s pretty and clever enough to trick a wealthy gentleman into marrying her and then stealing his fortune. Foggy doesn’t really have that option, so—classes for him.

“Exactly,” Marci says, then swears a violent string under her breath. “I’ve got to go, I’m about to get interrogated by an R.A.”

She hangs up and Foggy follows a few moments later, turning around to take a deep breath, watching people walk by on the street and not notice him at all until he lifts his head to find Matt’s windows—the only ones that aren’t covered at all.

When he goes back, Matt’s cleaning up the dishes, and the sight of his bare back makes Foggy feel like he’s lost every single one of his senses. He crosses the tiny apartment on impulse to rest a shaky hand there, more confident after the soft, satisfied sound that Matt makes when Foggy’s hand stops at the waistband of his boxers.

“I thought you might run off,” Matt says, drying his hands before turning to circle his arms around Foggy’s waist.

“Thought about it,” Foggy admits.

“I think,” Matt says, pulling Foggy in, “that you should try thinking less.”

“I might need help with that,” Foggy says.

Matt’s kiss is already familiar.

“Whatever you need,” he says, taking Foggy’s hand and leading him back to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i still don't know what's happening 
> 
> also, i need an irl girl version of this matt because why the FUCK is nobody calling me sugar. that's my id in this fic.

“I feel like everybody’s gonna _know_ ,” Foggy murmurs, shaking his head with a smile when Matt bumps their hips together as they walk to a diner a few blocks away for dinner, thinking so hard about holding his hand like he used to do in the hallways with his first girlfriend that he has to slide his hands into his pockets instead.

“Know what?” Matt asks, smiling ahead.

He’s wearing the same dark sunglasses as last night but he looks like a movie star in broad daylight, with the sleeves of his t-shirt rolled up and a book shoved into the back pocket of his tight jeans. Foggy’s never been so entirely fascinated by the way someone walks before, slow confident stride with Matt’s white cane out in front of him, hips moving just a little bit but made obvious by the fact that Matt’s shirt’s tucked into his waistband and it’s almost like Foggy can see him completely bare again.

“Know—what we did,” he says.

“We’ve done a lot this weekend, buddy,” Matt says, happily. “You’ve gotta be more specific.”

“Buddy,” Foggy says.

Matt hesitates for a moment before he takes Foggy’s arm in his hand, pulls him closer just for a moment before he says, voice pitched low and sly smile, “I’ll call you something as sweet as you are when you’re out of those clothes again, alright?”

“Alright,” Foggy says, laughing.

Matt keeps his hand on Foggy’s arm, just barely holding on, for the rest of the walk.

*

“I like the side effects,” Matt says, after dark when they crawl out his window to sit on the creaky fire escape outside to smoke a joint that Matt had stored in an old cigar box under his bed like a little kid’s treasure, “but not the smell.”

“I’ve never tried it,” Foggy admits.

“See anyone around?” Matt asks, leaning into him.

Matt’s building faces a warehouse with the windows blacked out or covered and they aren’t in view of the street.

“No, no one,” he says.

Matt smiles.

“Open your mouth,” he says, “and breathe in when I tell you.”

Foggy opens his mouth automatically, watching intently as Matt lights the joint and takes a long drag, murmuring, “Breathe,” when he leans in to slot his mouth over Foggy’s and blow smoke into his lungs.

Foggy’s never smoked more than the occasional cigarette, but this is different, maybe because Matt kisses him as soon as Foggy breathes the smoke out.

“I have to go back tomorrow,” Foggy says, sadly, when he starts to feel like he’s not quite in his head anymore. “I have _homework._ ”

Matt laughs and squeezes his knee, runs his hand up and down Foggy’s thigh.

“Aww,” he says. “Have I showed you a good time, at least?”

Foggy turns his head to look at Matt’s face for a moment before moving in to kiss him.

“Still time to show me some more,” he says, before biting down gently on Matt’s bottom lip.  

*

After they finish the joint, they go back inside and get undressed, kissing aimlessly until Foggy’s lying on his back on the cold floor with his legs spread and Matt between them, gasping out a moan at the feeling of his cock brushing Matt’s cheek.

“Don’t hold back,” Matt says, heatedly, pressing a kiss to it before barely tracing the head with his tongue. “I want to hear everything you feel, honey.”

The windows are all open to let in the street and the whole building is loud, like it’s got too many people stuffed into it, but between records playing at top volume and babies crying and groaning pipes, he doesn’t think him letting Matt know exactly what it feels to have Matt’s mouth around his cock isn’t going to really make a difference.

Him crying Matt’s name out when he comes, hips jerking up and Matt’s hands pinning him down to the floor while he swallows around him, is just one part of the noise.

Matt’s breathing heavy when he sits up, looking victorious when he crawls up Foggy’s body to kiss him.

“I want—” Foggy gasps, tugging gently at Matt’s hair. “I want to do it for you.”

“You want to suck my cock,” Matt says, pulling him up until they’re on their knees facing each other, cupping his face in his hands. “Say it, Foggy.”

“I want to suck your cock,” Foggy agrees, nodding, shutting his eyes when Matt kisses him, only opening them again when Matt stands up and runs fingers through Foggy’s hair.

Foggy knows you can’t fall in love with someone after just a weekend, doesn’t know how you fall in love with another man at all, but the sight of Matt smiling down at him makes his heart do something completely new.

“Open your pretty mouth,” Matt says, softly, and Foggy does.

*

“Do I have to go back to school?” Foggy moans, pressed up against Matt’s front door with Matt’s mouth on his neck. He should have left long ago to actually get his work done. It’s been dark for hours.

“Yeah, because you’re a good boy,” Matt says, after he’s given Foggy a hickie that he will not be able to hide, reaching up to smooth his hair down and take a step back. “Is this the last time I get to touch you?”

“Of course not,” Foggy says, immediately, too enthusiastic. “How about tomorrow?”

Matt laughs, gives him the prettiest smile and a kiss on the mouth.

“You’ve gotta focus on your studies, sugar,” he says. “How about Friday night?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Foggy says.

They kiss for a few more minutes before Matt pulls away with a gasp, shaking his head and taking a few steps away.

“Alright, get out, kid,” he says, amused. “If I kiss you for one more second, I won’t let you leave until morning.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” Foggy says, but he moves in to peck Matt’s cheek and say, firmly, “Friday.”

“Friday,” Matt agrees.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, Romeo,” Marci says, warmly, sinking down to sit next to Foggy where he’s been sitting under a tree for what must be a full hour, trying to study but mostly writing the nonsense that lives in his mind when he’s thinking about Matt’s hands. She’s wearing a pale pink dress that pools around her legs and her cheeks match it when she grins and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder gently. “Or is it Juliet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aahhh this is still happening, y'all

“Hey, Romeo,” Marci says, warmly, sinking down to sit next to Foggy where he’s been sitting under a tree for what must be a full hour, trying to study but mostly writing the nonsense that lives in his mind when he’s thinking about Matt’s hands. She’s wearing a pale pink dress that pools around her legs and her cheeks match it when she grins and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder gently. “Or is it Juliet?”

“Christ, maybe,” Foggy says, sighing. “I’m going to flunk out, Marci. I can’t stop—”

He stops himself and makes a vague gesture with his hands, frowning at her when she laughs.

“Thinking about him?” she asks, lowering her voice as a crowd of guys passes by them. “You’re smitten. It’s not really my scene but it’s sweet.”

“You know, you’re awfully—forgiving of this,” Foggy says, cautiously.

“Nothing to forgive,” she says, noncommittally. “As long as you drag me down into this sinful bohemian lifestyle with you—I refuse to be the dull one in this friendship.”

“You could never be,” he says, laughing.

“I want to start wearing all black,” she says, sighing, resting her head on his shoulder, “and dispassionately smoke cigarettes on sidewalks and quote poets my professors would disapprove of.”

“Such a scandal.”

“ _Speaking_ of scandal.” Marci turns to press a kiss to his cheek. “How do you feel about getting a little cozy with me for some plausible deniability?”

“I couldn’t hold you back from finding someone else,” Foggy says, surprised, “just to let me have my—indiscretions.”

“Maybe I’ll pick up my own dreamy poet,” Marci says, elbowing him gently. “And we can both live these—intriguing, amorous double lives. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

Foggy slips an arm around her shoulder.

“Sounds like a pulp novel,” he says. “So, you’ll hold my hand on campus and everyone will think we’re normal?”

“Sure,” Marci says. “My parents think you’re darling and we spend so much time together anyway that I think we can get by with long walks and pecks on the cheek. Still interested in kissing me or has your boy turned you off girls entirely?”

Foggy smiles warmly, _feels_ warm, and turns to barely brush their lips together.

“I’d be honored,” he says.

“That Foggy Nelson,” Marci sighs, girlishly, in a voice she’d never use. “He’s _swell_.”

“Sure,” Foggy says, tipping his head back to feel the sun on his face. “Pass it along.”

*

“I don’t even remember what I wrote on that exam,” Foggy says. “Why don’t I care more?”

He’s tucked into a booth in a dark corner of the club with Matt, their fingers tangled together between them, sitting pressed together. He can see Matt’s smile clearly. He wants desperately to kiss it and wonders if he can, right here, in the open room and the smoky air.

Matt said everyone who comes here has something they want to stop hiding.

“I’d hate to lead you astray,” Matt says, shamelessly flirting, reaching up to toy with Foggy’s hair.

“Now, I don’t think you’d hate that all,” Foggy says, leaning closer.

Onstage, Jessica Jones is reading a poem with a pounding rhythm and a string of obscenities that keep shocking Foggy because he’s not really used to it yet—hearing about anger that fierce, about sex that brazenly, while he’s got a warm hand sliding up the inside of his thigh and Matt’s breath smelling like cigarettes and gin on his cheek.

He’s vaguely aware of Marci sitting on the edge of the stage, skirt pushed up enough from how she’s angled to show her bare knees down to her low black high heels, holding a half empty bottle of wine. She’s clearly having her own fun.

“I’ve never met a boy as sweet as you,” Matt says, fingers moving from Foggy’s hair to trace his jawline, just a sweep of his thumb. “I’ll admit, I like the idea of—introducing you to this world.”

“That’s awfully demure of you,” Foggy says, laughing.

“I don’t want to make you blush too hard, honey,” Matt says, turning his face to sneak a soft kiss to Foggy’s cheek. “Not until I get you alone, at least.”

They get an inch or two between them when Luke walks up but he just smirks and leans against the table with his hip.  

“You’re in competition with Jess to see who’s gonna get me shut down first, right?” Luke asks.

“From performance,” Matt asks, raising his eyebrows, “or bad behavior?”

Matt’s hand curls around Foggy’s knee, squeezing it gently.

“One kind of informs the other, doesn’t it?” Luke asks, laughing. “You should finish up the night while everyone’s just stoned enough to appreciate it—do something worthy of a confession, yeah?”

“I might need whiskey straight for that, then,” Matt says, brushing against Foggy as he stands up. “Something for you, doll?”

“Uhm, the same,” Foggy says, feeling flustered all of a sudden, at the sweet hot way Matt smiles down at him and Luke rolling his eyes right behind him.

“Do you even know his name, Murdock?” Luke whispers, just loud enough that Foggy catches it as they’re walking off to the bar.

“‘course,” Matt says, not bothering to whisper. “Doll’s just more accurate.”

Foggy bites his lip and tries not to smile like an idiot, browsing through the rule book in his head for how to react to the feeling in his chest and coming up blank. Like everything else about Matt, this is utterly and entirely new. And if Foggy was lost in lust just from the space Matt occupies in his mind now, he’s lost in something more now, in soft touch and sweetness—and he _definitely_ needs a drink.

He turns to watch Matt knock back whiskey before he comes back and slides a glass to Foggy.

“Wish me luck,” he says, winking, walking off before Foggy actually gets a chance to do it, just whispers it to himself.

As soon as Matt climbs onto the little rickety stage, Misty and Marci slide into the booth on either side of him, both of them knocking into him with their elbows before they settle down.

“I’d bet on my life that this poem’s either about blasphemy or your ass,” Misty says, giving Foggy a sly look.

“Probably both,” Marci says, giggling and leaning her head on Foggy’s shoulder.

“How much did you drink?” Foggy asks, amused.

“A bit,” she says. “And I had a cigarette—of a sort.”

“Wild girl,” Misty says, dry, a little fond. Something in her voice makes Foggy look from her to Marci to see them both looking—kind of dreamy, at nothing and at each other. Maybe they’re just high off their but Foggy’s sure he would’ve looked at Matt just the same, dumb and happy.

“Well, I’m learning from the best,” Marci says.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Foggy asks, laughing softly.

“Hush,” Marci says, elbowing him on purpose this time, mouth twisting in a nervous smile. “He’s starting.”

Matt seems like he’s almost shy before he starts talking, laughing at someone in the front of the room, pushing his long hair away from his face before he says, “Luke gave me permission to say things that will ruin my eternal soul but I don’t think I have that in me today.”

A few people in the room make exaggerated disappointed noises. Foggy licks his lips.

It’s a love poem.

It’s vicious and filthy, how this city can swallow people up and redeem them, how we bury and hide the things that truly move us, that open our souls to god, that turn us on and tear us apart—how you can find peace in somebody else’s body, _inside_ their body, quick fucks in bar bathrooms and raw lovemaking on mattresses.

Maybe it’s not about Foggy—maybe it _is,_ his body and Matt’s peace—but it’s a _love_ poem.

Foggy applauds before he can stop himself. Everyone laughs and Matt beams at him from the stage.

“They _snap_ ,” Marci says, hiding her face into his shoulder to laugh..

“I’m learning,” Foggy says, not even bothered, wondering if Matt’ll maybe take him home now.

*

“I was talking about you,” Matt says, after a few moments of silent walking, his hand curved around Foggy’s elbow.

“Oh,” Foggy says.

“Just in case you didn’t know,” Matt continues. “You’re why— _how_ I wrote it.”

Foggy’s silent for a moment, overwhelmed.

“Shit, I scared you,” Matt says, laughing, a little sharp. “I know we hardly know each other, but I just can’t stop thinking about you—”

Foggy interrupts him by pulling him into an alley, just far enough that they can’t be seen, and backing him up to kiss him against the bricks. Matt’s hands sink into his hair, breathing heavily as he kisses back.

“I hoped it was about me,” Foggy says. “You’re brilliant, Matt— _fuck_ , you’re brilliant.”

“Keep calling me brilliant,” Matt says, laughing, pushing against Foggy gently so Foggy takes a step back and Matt can grab him by the belt, leading him further into the alley. “I want to make good on some of the things I said up there.”

He’s undoing Foggy’s belt and unzipping his trousers and Foggy thinks faintly that he should protest, because they could get in genuine jail-time trouble if they get caught like this, because this thing that makes Foggy feel—of all absurd things— _beautiful_ is something that could ruin his life.

He doesn’t care, though.

“Yeah, Matt,” he murmurs, tipping his head back when Matt gets him against the bricks instead, licks his hand and jerks Foggy off slowly while he opens Foggy’s shirt enough to get his mouth on his neck. “Please.”

Maybe it’s the live wire sparking inside of him from the fear of getting caught, but he almost shouts, biting down on his own fist to muffle it when Matt drops to his knees and takes his dick in his mouth instead. Foggy tips his head back and makes noises that will embarrass him later when he thinks about this, when he catches a moment without his roommate to touch himself and think of Matt’s mouth, hot and wet and sucking him slowly.

“I’m gonna—fucking goddamn _shit_ , Matty, I’m gonna come,” he says, voice strangled, muffled with his fist still covering his mouth.

Matt doesn’t answer, just digs his fingers into Foggy’s hips and swallows when Foggy comes in his mouth, hips jerking so Matt gags and coughs when he pulls off, grinning up at him with a messy chin.

“Matty?” he says, wiping off his face with his sleeve, standing up to press a kiss to Foggy’s mouth.

“I just said fucking goddamn shit all in a row,” Foggy says, breathlessly, “and _that’s_ what you want to talk about?”

“Trust me, doll, I could listen to your dirty mouth for hours,” Matt says, with a serene smile that makes Foggy’s heart ache, “but I like Matty. Keep it up.”

Foggy nods and pulls him into another kiss, hands falling to work Matt’s belt open when Matt goes still and stiff. Foggy starts to ask what’s wrong, but Matt says, “Shh, come here,” and tugs Foggy further into the alley and behind the dumpster.

Foggy stays silent, pressed up against the bricks with Matt’s body covering his, clenching his fingers in the back of Matt’s shirt. Matt moves a hand and places it over Foggy’s heart, resting their foreheads together, while voices get closer—two guys talking about the _weather_ like Foggy’s heart isn’t in his _throat,_ fading away after they toss a garbage bag into the dumpster.

Matt lets out a heavy breath.

“Sorry,” he says. “Alleys are—risky.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, looking at the anger layered under worry on Matt’s face and wondering how much time he’s spent in alleys like this, if he’s been caught before. Instead, he fixes his trousers and kisses Matt once, soft and lingering. “Let’s go to your place.”

Matt’s smile transforms the whole fucking world.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching up to smooth Foggy’s hair down. “Let’s go.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy almost drops the armful of books he’s bringing back from the library when he sees Matt sitting on the steps of his dorm, wearing tight black jeans and a black t-shirt with the arms rolled up to show muscles that make Foggy ache to touch them again, only slightly less arresting than Matt’s smile when Foggy stops in front of him and says, “Hey, Matty.”

Foggy almost drops the armful of books he’s bringing back from the library when he sees Matt sitting on the steps of his dorm, wearing tight black jeans and a black t-shirt with the arms rolled up to show muscles that make Foggy ache to touch them again, only slightly less arresting than Matt’s smile when Foggy stops in front of him and says, “Hey, Matty.”

“Hey, kid,” Matt says, leaning back and raising his face toward him, dark glasses hiding the way that Foggy knows his eyes crinkle when he smiles like that.

They’ve been messing around for more than a month now and Foggy knows that Matt calling him _kid_ is just another way of calling him something sweet where other people might hear.

“It’s—strange to see you here,” he says, unsure how to describe the sharp juxtaposition of this life and the one that he spends mainly in Matt’s arms.

“Warm welcome,” Matt says, amused.

“Strange doesn’t mean bad,” Foggy says, sitting his books and his bag down carefully before he sits next to him, close enough that their shoulders touch. “Did you need something?”

“Just you,” Matt says, leaning against him. “I had a minute. Thought I’d trek up here and see if I could take you out.”

“A date?” Foggy asks.

“Nice boy like you deserves to be treated right,” Matt says, maybe joking but his elbow nudges Foggy’s side, his fingers skim Foggy’s knee for just a moment, “and I wanted to steal you away from academia for a night.”

“Jealous?” Foggy asks, smiling.

“Oh, terribly,” Matt says, dryly. “Are you free now?”

“No,” Foggy says, glancing down at the books he should be reading immediately, “but—fuck it.”

“Now, don’t swear when I can’t kiss it off your lips,” Matt says, warmly. “How about you show me your room and then I’ll buy dinner?”

Foggy’s roommate, Neil, isn’t there when they get up so he takes the chance to crowd Matt against the door and kiss him intently, hands flexing at Matt’s waist, wanting to touch him everywhere. Matt makes a soft noise and kisses Foggy back, cupping his face in his hands, murmuring, “How long do you think we have?”

“Neil’s ephemeral,” Foggy says. “I have no clue.”

“Probably don’t want to be caught on your knees,” Matt says, tugging Foggy’s hair gently. “Not by someone named _Neil,_ at least.”

Based on Foggy’s experiences with Neil, that’s pretty accurate, but he considers it for a moment because it almost seems worth the risk—that’s how much he misses Matt whenever they’re apart, really, honestly—but Matt just laughs and kisses him again before pushing Foggy gently away from him.

“Tell me about your room,” he says.

“It’s roughly the size of a coffin,” Foggy says, “and approximately as hospitable.”

Matt laughs and says, “Evocative. How about your bed?”

“How about you try it out?” Foggy asks, smiling at the sly look that Matt gives him before he climbs onto Foggy’s bed and flops down, stretching his legs out.

“ _Hell_ ,” he says, laughing sharply. “Maybe you should sleep at my place more, if this is how you’re living.”

“I’d get nothing done,” Foggy says, sitting down on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on Matt’s chest. “I’d drop out because I’d never want to leave your bed.”

“Sweet talker,” Matt murmurs, apparently changing his tune because he reaches up to pull Foggy down into a kiss.

Foggy moans softly at the feeling of Matt’s tongue against his, slings a leg over Matt to get closer. It’s still bizarre, having him here, heavy breathing and blunt nails scraping down Foggy’s back through his shirt, but it just makes time feel like it slows down, like it’s honey thick, so he can barely grasp what’s happening when Matt murmurs, “Someone’s coming,” and sits up quickly.

“How do you—” Foggy starts, but Matt just reaches up to smooth Foggy’s hair down before leveraging himself to his feet and finding Foggy’s desk, leaning against it when Foggy hears someone approaching the door. His heart’s racing at the sound of a key in the door, but he thinks he manages to look less debauched by the time Neil comes inside.

“Hey,” Neil says, glancing curiously at Matt before he goes to sit his stuff down on his bed. “Who’s this?”

“Uhm, this is Matt,” Foggy says, trying to get his head out of the clouds. “He’s—a friend.”

“Nice to meet you,” Neil says, stopping to look Matt up and down before he asks, skeptically, “I haven’t seen you around—do you go here?”

“Graduated a few years ago,” Matt says, smile just a little bit sharp. “Just here to reminisce.”

Foggy looks up at him, curious. It doesn’t sound like Matt is lying.

“Anyway, we were just leaving,” he says, standing up to grab Matt’s cane that he left resting on the wall and hand it to him. “Have a good night.”

“Mmm hmm,” Neil says, already absorbed in a book.

*

“Were you telling the truth,” Foggy asks, when they’re outside and Matt’s hand is resting on his arm, just that small touch feeling illicit in public, “about going to Columbia?”

“I was,” Matt says, smiling ahead. “You surprised?”

“You’ve just never mentioned it,” Foggy says. “You don’t really seem like the college type.”

“What does that mean?” Matt asks, laughing.

“You’re just so—so _bohemian_ ,” Foggy says, trying and failing to be cool about it. “You do— _drugs_. You’re a _poet_.”

“Well, I had to learn to write properly from someone first,” Matt says, waving his free hand aimlessly, “before I could unlearn it and learn to write _well_.”

“Now, hold on, what do you do for a living?” Foggy asks, feeling stupid for haven’t pieced any of this together before now. “I never thought past you being a poet but there must be something else or you would’ve starved by now.”

“I’m a lawyer,” Matt says, grinning.

“You’re a _lawyer?”_ Foggy asks. “How are you an absolute stranger to me?”

“We’ve put our mouths to better use than chatting, kid,” Matt says, kind of serene, tugging him minutely closer.

“A lawyer,” Foggy mutters.

“I’m sure there’s plenty I haven’t learned about you,” Matt says.

Foggy thinks for a moment before he says, “No, you’ve got all of me. I don’t have much going on.”

“Well,” Matt says, turning to give him a smile that _implies_ things. “We’ll just have to change that, won’t we?”

“. . .can I come home with you?” Foggy asks, hopefully.

Matt turns to lean in close to Foggy’s ear, just for a moment, to say, “Anytime, sugar.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, no,” Matt says, grinning and pushing Foggy away gently when he tries to climb into bed with him. “I already wrapped up a case. Your weekend doesn’t start until you finish your work.”
> 
> “What good is having my room to myself if I have to do schoolwork?” Foggy moans, stealing a kiss before he goes back to his typewriter.
> 
> “Because as soon as you finish writing about Byron,” Matt asks, “then we can act like Byron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek here's some spanking and love

“No, no,” Matt says, grinning and pushing Foggy away gently when he tries to climb into bed with him. “I already wrapped up a case. _Your_ weekend doesn’t start until you finish your work.”

“What good is having my room to myself if I have to do _schoolwork_?” Foggy moans, stealing a kiss before he goes back to his typewriter. Neil's gone home to Jersey for the weekend and he wants to make the most of it.

“Because as soon as you finish writing about Byron,” Matt asks, “then we can _act_ like Byron.”

“Oh, right,” Foggy says, hesitating for a moment before he starts typing again. Even the distraction of a beautiful man in his bed won’t stop him from writing a decent paper. He might not be able to write like Matt does but he’s good at this kind of thing—reading somebody else and making sense of it.

His ending may be a little rushed but that’s because Matt’s humming behind him, something lilting and pretty that Foggy doesn’t recognize, and he wants to be close enough to feel the vibration in his chest.

“Done,” he says, slapping his desk and catching Matt’s sleepy smile as he sits up and laughs when Foggy immediately crawls on top of him.

“Good boy,” Matt croons, softly, running fingers over Foggy’s cheek. “I think you deserve a reward—whatever you want.”

“Fuck me,” Foggy says.

“ _Where_ ver you want,” Matt says.

“. . .my desk,” Foggy says. “Oh, _Neil’s_ desk.”

“Why Neil’s desk?” Matt asks, laughing.

“I don’t know, it just seems—filthier,” Foggy says, spreading his hands out on Matt’s chest, soft cotton and firm stomach underneath as he draws them down.

“And that’s what you want to be tonight, honey?” Matt asks, face going dark. “Filthy?”

“Yeah, Matty,” Foggy says, fingers stopping on Matt’s belt, starting to unbuckle it. “You gonna help me out?”

“Yeah, I’ll help you out,” Matt says, grinning and aiming a slap at Foggy’s hip that makes Foggy make a surprised moan. “Go lock the door and bend over for me.”

Foggy clears the desktop and pushes the chair away to sprawl out on his elbows so Matt can fuck him hard, covering Foggy’s mouth with his hand when Foggy can’t keep his voice down, until Foggy nips at his palm lightly and gasps out, “Will you—will you hit me again?”

“You want me to spank you?” Matt asks, surprised.

“Uh huh,” Foggy breathes. “I think it’s. uh—what Lord Byron would want.”

Matt chokes on a laugh, rolling his hips against Foggy’s ass before hitting it sharply, making Foggy gasp loudly and shove forward, desk scraping his stomach.

“Here,” Matt says, groping behind him before he sits Foggy’s briefs on the desk next to him. “Bite down—don’t want your neighbors to hear how much you like it.”

Foggy balls them up and bites down on them, moan muffled when Matt hits him again.

Later, when they’re curled up naked together in Foggy’s twin bed, Foggy says softly, “I might actually be a bit of a tramp.”

Matt laughs against Foggy’s hair, pressing a kiss to it.

“I love it,” he says, pulling Foggy closer.   

*

“Misty says I’m your _beard_ ,” Marci says, not quite drunk but that level of tipsy she gets to routinely where everything’s a riot and she likes to sit in people’s laps, the way she just slid into Foggy’s where he’s sitting in an easy chair with Matt at his feet. He’s been stroking Matt’s hair, sure that everyone’s too invested in the energy of the room to look down and notice them but feeling bold and proud when Matt essentially purrs like a house cat.

“What?” Matt asks, laughing as he moves to the side to avoid getting kicked in the head.

“I don’t know what that means,” Foggy says.

“It means—wait a minute, are you two dating?” Matt asks, suddenly cautious.

“No,” Foggy says, immediately.

“ _Well_ ,” Marci says, drawing it out.

“Not in the—the eyes of _God_ or anything,” Foggy says. “Just for show. What’s a beard?”

“Exactly that, actually—it’s when a very nice lady,” Marci says, gesturing at herself and lifting a hand to pat Foggy’s cheek, “ _such as myself_ agrees to be in an absolute sham of a relationship with a—well, a gentleman like you.”

“A gentleman like me,” Foggy repeats, laughing.

“Well, the word homosexual just seems so _ominous_ ,” she says, making a face.

“You’ll prefer it to what they’ll call him if he’s found out,” Matt says, scoffing a little.

Foggy glances up to see that Matt’s face is kind of tight, shoulders stiff.

“It’s just so people don’t talk,” Foggy says, wanting to take his hand, reaching up to barely graze his fingers over it instead.

“I get it,” Matt says, smiling like he doesn’t remember how, like Foggy’s never seen before. “It’s smart.”

“Well, I’m going to make a graceful exit,” Marci says, after a beat, which is a lie because she immediately stumbles on her heels when she gets off of Foggy, only saving herself from falling by grabbing a support beam after which she saunters off with her shoulders up and her head held high.

“You’re angry with me,” Foggy says, hesitantly.

“Why would I be?” Matt asks, but that’s a tone Foggy’s never heard, either, like he’s got something entirely different he’d like to say.

“Come in the back with me,” Foggy says, getting up.

“I’m reading soon.”

“Don’t act like you people adhere to schedules,” Foggy says, taking Matt’s wrist insistently, already calming down when Matt lets himself be led. As soon as the door is shut behind him, Foggy takes Matt’s face and kisses him but Matt doesn’t kiss back.

“You _are_ angry with me,” Foggy says, laughing a little and taking a step back.

“I’m not,” Matt says, sighing. “I’m angry with—the world. I’m desperately aware of how things work when we’re a sin in everyone’s eyes but I still get heated up at the idea that someone else can love you anywhere they want and I can’t.”

“. . .love me?” Foggy asks, softly.

Matt’s mouth falls open.

“Jesus, kid,” he says, laughing.

“Don’t call me kid,” Foggy says.

Matt’s face gets beautifully, achingly, intently soft when he nods and takes Foggy’s face this time, pushing up to kiss him on the forehead, the tip of his nose, saying softly against his lips, “Sweetheart.”

“I know how to date Marci, I know what—what I’m _supposed_ to do,” Foggy says, trying to measure his words correctly, “but I—I don’t know how to do the same with you. I _want_ to.”

“You _don’t_ do the same with me,” Matt says. “We can’t be like that _._ God, if I was less selfish, I wouldn’t even touch you.”

“What?” Foggy asks, frowning, feeling nervous pain tugging at his heart.

Matt sighs and kisses him again.

“You’ve got a whole life ahead of you, Foggy Nelson,” he says. “Every moment I have you could be the moment to ruin it.”

“What about _your_ life?” Foggy asks.

“I’ll screw it up all on my own,” Matt says, smiling wryly. “I just won’t take you down with me.”

“I’m not gonna date Marci,” Foggy says. “She’s too good for me, anyway.”

Matt laughs and loops his arms around Foggy’s waist, resting their foreheads together.

“Unlike me, yeah?”

Foggy makes a noncommittal noise and is rewarded with a real kiss, one that pushes him backward until his back is pressed up against one of the buzzing old refrigerators. Matt wastes time sucking a bruise on his neck, not lifting his head until Foggy says, “You love me, don’t you?”

Matt looks conflicted but he says softly, “Yeah, sweetheart. I love you.”

“Then—nothing else matters,” Foggy says, thinking that Matt must think he’s just a kid, that he doesn’t know much about the world, but he just holds Matt close like he can keep him there. “Right? I mean—I love you, too, you know. I really do.”

“I know,” Matt says, softly. “I know you do. It’s—terrifying.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It’s just that—I’ve never had something I couldn’t walk away from before,” Matt says, taking a step back to hold onto Foggy’s shoulders, so Foggy can see the serious look on his face. “I don’t want to walk away from you, Foggy.”

“Then don’t,” Foggy says. “Stay here.”

Matt nods and kisses him softly.

“C’mon, baby doll,” he says, taking Foggy’s hand. “I’ve gotta be profane for a moment and then I’m making you dinner.”

 _Baby doll_ makes Foggy feel small and fragile and—

_Loved._

He follows the feeling of Matt’s hand in his and hopes he never has to stop.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [the tumblr](returnsandreturns.tumblr.com)


End file.
